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Her padded coat pulled tightly over her chest, Amethyst hunched over the crackling remains of a fire. The flames had receded to coals, leaving her with dwindling warmth, growing greyness, and a persistent sniffle as her nose fell to the chill of a brisk wind. She grumbled as she was forced to stand and survey the camp. There was wood - sure - but not kindling and not any dry enough to immediately stoke the fire back into flames. She would be forced to [i]move[/i] to get warm - or force someone else to revive the fire. Or find another fire. None of these options sounded remotely palatable, so she decided on the most practical choice of action in shoving her hands firmly into her threadbare pockets and pouting.